Waiting For The End
by SpadesJade
Summary: From the many mysteries of Guerrero's past comes a woman with whom he'd once had a serious relationship, until it all went wrong. When a job makes their paths cross again, unresolved feelings muck up the works. When things get personal, it all goes bad.
1. This is not the end

Disclaimer – hey, if Fox doesn't want them anymore, does that mean that they're ours now? (sigh) Didn't think so…

Ooooooookaaaaaaay….

So I wrote this some time back and didn't finish it, and now I've come back to it, but I'm still not sure if it's going to be finished. I know I have seriously dug my own hole with some of my previous unfinished fanfic (_Fates Intertwined_ people, don't kill me!) and this one may end up unfinished, too. Not because it doesn't deserve to be finished, but because I just honestly don't know if it's any good.

I am totally not the kind of person to put my work down in hopes others will say, "No, its great!" I am pretty confident in my skills as a writer, but I had a hard time catching the character of Guerrero, and I'm really not feeling all that confident about my portrayal of _him_. So I shall post a few chapters, see if anyone is interested, and maybe some feedback will help me improve the character.

One of the things I did for this fic is that I named it after a song by Linkin Park called "Waiting For The End," and I became completely obsessed with the song! So I decided to name each chapter after a line from the song. Hope it isn't too lame.

Okay, enjoy, and please let me know if I should continue!

CHAPTER ONE

_This is not the end; this is not the beginning _

Elle turned and aimed the gun at him. For a moment, Guererro didn't quite get it, but then the click came. Instinct made him still, but his heart was beating much too fast, and he disliked it.

He remembered this feeling before. It was what had made him kill Matheson.

"You and I," she said, almost imperiously, "have unfinished business."

"Jesus," he heard himself spitting, "spare me the _Kill Bill_ shit, it isn't like I tried to kill _you_!"

Her eyes widened, and to his dismay, she smiled. Almost laughed. "If only you had!" she cried. "I could have understood _that_, even forgiven it!" Her hand which held the gun had not moved, until this moment, but just then, it seemed the weight was bending her wrist. "No, Guererro," she spat the name as if it were an insult, "you did much worse than kill me – you destroyed me!"

Her arm lowered. For a moment, Guerrero was sure she was going to shoot him, just low, to make it hurt. It was what he'd do. If he was as pissed as she was at this moment.

But she didn't.

"Destroyed me, in _every_ sense of the word." Her eyes didn't leave his, not for a second. "Everything that was important to me, you took away. My livelihood, my reputation… my _future_. Anna was grooming me to take her place! How _could_ she, then, after my utter failure, thanks to being betrayed by the man _I was supposed to be able to trust!_"

Guererro, wisely, said nothing.

"And why?" She flung her hands out, more to make her point than out of any need for an answer. "Tell me! Can you give me that much? Tell me why!"

After a pause he was sure was too long, he said, "To prove a point."

"And how did that work out for you?" Her voice had gotten so quiet, it was worse than the screaming.

"Didn't." A rather typical Guererro look followed this declaration. The curl of his upper lip into his cheek, the flattening of his lips in something impersonating a grin.

She stared at him. Anyone else might have mistaken her wide-eyed gaze as being shock, or surprise, or even amazement. Maybe there were those things in it. Disgust, though – he could feel it. He knew her well enough to see it, even after all this time.

"So, it was for nothing." She sounded…defeated. Alarms were going off all over his brain and yet, still, he could only stupidly stand there. Waiting.

She let out a very small sigh, and then raised the gun again. "Perhaps, at the very least, I should make us even." And she turned the gun to Chance.

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_**One Week Ago**_

Guerrero, discreet as usual, paced the perimeter of the amphitheater, but was distracted, which was unusual. The events of the last few days – that nasty business in Alabama still left a sour taste in his mouth – had not quite settled themselves into the corners of his brain. Things kept popping up, a moment, a beat, pulling his momentary train of thought away onto a different track.

(_gotten too dependent need my own space since when did I need someone to rescue me?)_

It was dangerous. He had watched Chance get derailed by his personal feelings for Maria, and knew in his own heart of hearts that such a thing could happen to him.

When personal feelings got involved, things went bad. That was just how it was.

At any rate, he had to finish surveying this place. Find all possible places an assassin could hole up. He was running through his own personal checklist – he had done this kind of thing himself too many times not to know every possible vantage point – for about the third time. He didn't want to miss anything.

He was just beginning to contemplate the angles of where a manhole cover was placed and how a gunman could fit underneath in the wide pipe below, and remembering in Cairo how badly he had stunk for almost three days after trying that particular route – how many showers had he had to take in a single day to make the smell even bearable? – when he was suddenly aware that he was being observed.

It was a prickle, mostly, on the back of his neck, which told him he wasn't alone. He looked around, although he was pretty sure his observer wouldn't realize that was what he was doing, and saw nothing.

_Imagination?_ he wondered. Might make sense. Paranoia in this business was just good common sense.

Again, the prickle. He didn't see anything, and wondered if senility had finally decided to visit him. It was just a matter of time, really – he'd seen so many talented men in his line of work succumb to the crazybug, and suspected that some day he would go the same way. It wasn't possible to know all the horrible things that lay just under the surface of society and keep sane. At least not indefinitely.

That was when the blow came. Sharp and hard, right across the jaw. He rolled with it so that it didn't rattle his skull as much as the attacker intended, but whoever it was, was moving so fast that he couldn't get enough of a beat on them to strike back with appropriate countermeasures.

He spun, getting his balance quickly and avoiding another blow, but it seemed that whoever he was fighting had anticipated this as well and it just led into a trap – an arm, not thick but strong, immediately chopped him right across the chest like a living two-by-four and knocked him back. He went into a nearby parked car – the security logo blazed across it in mocking fashion – and slammed onto the hood on his back, pressing oxygen from his lungs.

Other men might have slid down, winded and gasping, onto the concrete, but he kicked his legs up, knocking his attacker back from him a good ten feet and evoking a satisfactory grunt of pain for his effort. He flipped down hard, almost as if he were going to roll himself forward from the hood, but whoever it was had ducked down, and the effort it took him to swing and miss almost got him off his feet again.

Almost – it was when the leg went behind his and swung out in an arc that took his feet away that he hit the concrete, pride smarting much more than the scrapes on his calloused hands. Still, he was quick, and was in a crouch, ready to get back up and keep fighting when he heard the heavy click of a rifle, and saw the barrel fill his vision.

It wasn't the blackness of where the bullet would enter his brain and end his life that got his attention. It was the pair of eyes behind it. Eyes he recognized. Eyes that recognized him.

"Stop!"

He didn't know that voice, but if he hadn't been so stunned at the moment he would have taken advantage of its sudden emergence to knock that shotgun from its line to his brain. Instead, he could only stare, stupidly. Later he would berate himself. Right now, even he could not believe what he saw, and he could believe more than most.

"Lisa, don't!" that voice came again, sounding a mite panicked. "They're working for us!"

_Lisa_, Guerrero thought in his head. It was not the name he had known her by, but it started with the same letter. She had changed it so much that he eventually just started calling her Elle.

He knew she recognized him, as well. His hair was thicker, his clothes were different, and maybe she had known damn well who she was attacking when she came at him like a ninja, but nothing in that face betrayed the slightest hint of her feelings. She had the stone cold mask of a professional.

He could have respected that, if it hadn't suddenly pissed him off so badly.

She didn't take her eyes from him, for all of that. She couldn't – glancing away would give him a window, even if she had been ordered to stand down.

"I hired them." The voice was coming from the client, Guerrero realized, although he had only heard it once. She, however, seemed to know it very well, and with a single blink that gave him the queer feeling he was being dismissed, she finally turned her head.

"And you didn't tell me," she said, her voice perfectly even in tone, but joined to the look in her eyes was ripe with disapproval. "May I ask why?"

Confident that she wasn't going to pull the trigger, Guerrero got to his feet. He dusted himself off, feeling his irritation in his quick, harsh strokes. He looked from Elle to the client, wondering what the client would even say, but knowing that Elle was still doing her old job, nothing had changed. And she did _not_ like surprises. Not one little fucking bit.

The client, a man in his prime, not even a few years past forty and what the commonwealth of women would probably define as highly attractive, did not seem to be able to answer this question, but gave what Guerrero supposed was to be a disarming shrug. Elle did not buy it, but she did put the rifle down.

"Well," Chance said, and for the first time Guerrero realized he was there, along with Ilsa, who was responsible for bringing the client in the first place, "now that we've all been introduced, maybe now is the time to open the channels of communication."

Coolly, Elle's eyes turned to Chance. "You must be Junior," she said, unflappable.

Chance, who was definitely flapped by the sudden reference to his former moniker, did a brief little double take. "Um…my name is Christopher Chance," he said, giving Elle a charming smile to cover his reaction.

She nodded curtly. The charm had no effect. She looked to her employer, and said, "We should move this conversation to a more discreet location." She said nothing more.


	2. Just a voice like a riot

CHAPTER TWO

_Just a voice like a riot; rocking every revision_

_Guerrero sits behind a desk at a computer. The room he is in is dark and quiet, because there is a party going on one level below, and everyone is there. Security prowls the hallways, but Guerrero is very good at avoiding security, and those he can't avoid, he deals with effectively._

_He's not supposed to be in this room, at this computer, hacking the enclosed system within, but Guerrero has never worried about being places where he isn't allowed, and he's not going to start. _

_He is minutes away from getting the files he needs from the supposedly "secure" drive. When he is done, he plans on slipping back out the way he came and blending in with the crowd of partygoers. He rarely gets to wear his extremely expensive Armani suit, and occasions like this are not to be missed. _

_Seconds now, the job is almost done. Just as he pockets the flash drive and shuts down the CPU, the door to the study opens, and a rectangle of light illuminates the expensive rugs on the floor. _

_The desk is behind the door, so whoever enters cannot see him at first. He, however, can see them. Or in this case, _her_._

_He noticed her before when he slipped amongst the guests. She was hard to miss – tall, beautiful, and extremely cool. He liked them glamorous and sophisticated, not just because of the obvious but because it was also a challenge. But he couldn't spend any time talking to anyone, it would draw attention to his presence, and that was the last thing he wanted. Still…she was a gem, in some kind of gown that probably had designer words attached to them, something pretentious like _couture_. _

_The way she had gazed around the room before gave Guerrero the feeling that any overture he might make would be rebuffed, and quickly. Labeling her as a potential ice-queen (although he knew this was just sour grapes – and even if it wasn't, he didn't mind the effort it would take to break that ice), he efficiently put her from his mind._

_Now she enters the study where he works, and her walk is unsteady, stumbling. She grasps at her forehead, wobbling her way to a nearby chair, which sits in front of the desk. Silently, Guerrero slips farther back into the shadows to avoid being spotted, but knows it's just a matter of time._

_However…she is drunk. He can tell by how she groans a little when she lowers herself into the chair, by the sound of her breathing, and the little giggles and grunts she makes as she attempts to collect herself. _

_So, the princess had too much to drink and was attempting to sober up. This was tempting on so many levels – first, she may not remember him if her judgment were effectively impaired, and second, he could much more easily knock her out and she wouldn't be the wiser, thinking maybe she had passed out from the alcohol._

_Which is it to be? The direct approach, or the sneak attack? His time table is too short – if he came up to her now, he would more than likely shock her, and that would go a long way toward sobering her, reducing his chances. Besides, the thought of taking advantage of a drunk girl was beneath him. Not that he hadn't ever done it, but still…_

_Sneak attack it is. He glides around the desk, making no noise on the thick carpet. Coming up behind her, he prepares himself to press his hand on just the right nerve on her neck, and avoid the sparkly material of which her dress is made. He almost makes it._

_Almost._

_When he is right in the middle of his final approach, she stands up and swings around. Her fist comes out like a back-swinging ax and clobbers him right across the jaw. The surprise of the move and the force behind it combine to send him reeling. He thinks, for just a second, that he can recover with the moment it will take her to get around that chair, but she sweeps it from between them with a strength that is belied by her slender form. Her foot comes out, and that nasty stiletto heel, which normally makes women's legs look so much more appealing than they already are, stabs him right in the upper thigh._

_Pissed, Guerrero launches his attack. He has muscle on his side, and experience, and most of all, a calm kind of fearlessness he has always been known for. He goes for the vulnerable spots, but she spins away from him, almost like a dancer. He pursues, not flinching away from beating up a woman, which others might do, and perhaps she may be counting on. He will hit a woman when he has to and will not feel guilty for it later._

_He does manage a few blows. His spins and kicks are equal to hers, and whatever advantage her surprise attack gave her starts to fade. But then the lights are coming on in the room and there are guards, and he realizes that she called reinforcements and that this fight was over before it even started._

_Still, he does not go down easily. They have to aim several weapons at him to make him stop, and only when his partner skips back far enough from him to be protected by the circle of rifles aimed at his vital spots does he surrender. _

_However, the woman – whatever her name is, Guerrero wonders if he'll ever find out – does not let them kill him. She seems disappointed, almost. Guerrero wonders if he's imagining it, but there is a gleam in her eye of admiration even as they approach him to secure him somehow. He gets in a few more swings at this point, proving to them that yes, he is dangerous, and not just a little but a lot, and they have to dog-pile him to finally get his hands behind his back in a pair of handcuffs, and the woman, her voice as cool and sweet as he imagined it would be, says:_

"_Use both cuffs _and_ duct tape." He can hear in her voice that she is smiling._

_They tie his ankles, too, just for good measure._

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In Ilsa's office, their client sat in the middle of the very plush couch covered with Italian leather – more like perched, with his hands folded between his knees, his expression distressed.

Jack Anders, aspiring politician, was unsure. It was a far cry from his public image. He had gotten most of the way through his career on two very strong legs – first, being confident, and second, being very attractive.

He exuded the kind of youth and charm that would have made President Kennedy proud. His name was _Jack_, for crissakes, and he was a rising star.

Usually, Guerrero did not care enough to…well, care. Politics were just another way of saying _law_, and fuck-all the attention he gave to those. Sure, half of his clientele had come from the political arena, how many times he'd been paid to harass this guy to get him to bend this way or that guy to get him to vote that way he couldn't keep track. That didn't mean he cared what anybody believed or supported or attempted to shove down the public's throat. Money was money.

Still, Guerrero was not stupid. Knowledge, he knew, was power – power that sometimes bit him in the ass when people found out that he had it, as he had recently learned from the crew getting all pissed at his collecting information on them – so he was aware of Anders' stand on the major platforms.

It was a wonder he hadn't already been assassinated. He was far too conservative, for California let alone San Francisco, the most liberal city in the state. Of course, now, looking at his security, Guerrero knew better. He wondered, with more than a smite of irritation, how long Elle had been in his backyard without him knowing about it.

It was an old saying that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same, and Guerrero had never believed it more than he did now. Nothing was ever, had ever been stable with Elle, from her continuous use of wigs that had once-upon-a-time fooled even him, to her ability to mold herself into any kind of person – particularly, a female person – that the situation required.

Right now, the both of them were engaged in a game of chicken, although neither would have admitted it. She, standing at the window behind her client – always her client, he was always the center of her universe, no matter how she felt about him personally, if she had any feelings at all – with her hands together in front of her in that demure way that Guerrero knew damn well meant she was watching everything around her. Her eyes did not land on any of them – she rarely looked directly at things – and particularly they did not rest on him.

He couldn't stop stealing glances at her. He told himself, continuously, to not look at her, not give her the fucking _satisfaction_ of looking at her…

She was made up to be beautiful, as she always was. In the time he'd known her he had learned some of her tricks. Beauty in women – _this_ kind of beauty, at any rate – did not occur naturally. It required the right clothing to flatter the figure, the right make-up to highlight the appealing features, and a nightly regimen of self-preservation that would have made Egyptian embalmers proud.

Sure, she had on a blond wig of the kind of bright yellow cornsilk that would quickly catch a man's eye, and it looked damn real. Her contacts made her eyes a sharp emerald green, which would cause anyone who approached her to do a slight double-take, or feel pierced by her gaze. Her suit – a short skirt that accentuated her muscular legs, and a long jacket that screamed that she was in charge, thank-you-very-much – was obviously either Chanel or Armani, he had never been one to pay attention to designers.

"I'm not sure about this," Anders was saying. "I'm afraid it's going to send the wrong message."

Ilsa and Winston, the eminent professionals, were seated before him on the expensive leather-and-metal chairs Ilsa had had imported for the room. Guerrero preferred to hang back, but Chance was standing not too far from Anders, arms folded across his chest.

"Well, the problem with jobs like these," Chance said, "is that it's like a hydra."

He got a puzzled look from Winston.

"The Greek monster?" Chance tried. "Cut one head off and three more grow back? I mean, these political things can be messy."

"People have been gunning for politicians since their invention," Ilsa said, almost dismissively. "That's one of the reasons we have the Secret Service."

"And Mr. Anders," came Elle's soft, clear voice, "has his own security detail. Which is why I'm unsure as to why we're here."

Ah, so she _had_ changed a bit. She was showing irritation. Behind closed doors, this wouldn't have surprised Guerrero, but for her to speak in any way opposing the will of a client to his face – well, that was something new.

"Well, messy is what we do," Winston said, even as Anders turned to look at her, and the expressions of his face made Guerrero feel…shit, was that uneasy? He didn't like uneasy, it wasn't like him to be uneasy. "Most hits attempted on men in your position," Winston went on, over Guerrero's thoughts, "are the acts of individuals who are not…right in the head. This seems to be through professional channels."

"Could be Mafia," Ilsa suggested.

"If it was you'd never see it coming," Guerrero threw in. He didn't let his eyes go to Elle to see if she had spared him a glance for his comment. It was an act of his already-considerable will.

"It's not Mafia," Elle said, and Guerrero felt his fist involuntarily clench. She said it in a careless, you're-all-idiots kind of way. "We're working on the situation – " this time Guerrero saw her fix her look on Anders, saw the two of them meet eyes in a way that was clearly the talking-without-talking exchange – "and I anticipate the situation to be resolved shortly. I repeat, I'm unsure as to why we're here."

"Lisa," Anders said, in an intimate way, "that sniper nearly took off your—"

"He didn't," she cut him off. Again, careless, like he shouldn't even think of it. Her false green gaze snapped to Chance. An eyebrow cocked. "I don't require assistance, if this is some kind of job interview."

"I already hired them," Anders said, and damn if he didn't sound guilty about it.

She frowned. From a stranger's point of view it would have just looked like she was puzzled, but Guerrero could practically hear her rage sizzling behind her calm face. "Mr. Anders," she said, still in that tranquil, cool voice, "if you were unhappy with my work, you should have had the courtesy to discuss it with me in private."

She pushed herself from where she leaned, casually, and began to walk toward the sliding glass doors, as if making an exit.

"He doesn't want you to get hurt," Chance said, stopping her short and bringing her gaze to him.

"Dude," Guerrero whispered, in the _you-really-shouldn't-have_ way.

She smirked. It was a definite smirk, with the kind of condescending humor that came with it. "Getting hurt is part of the job," she said.

Anders was on his feet when she started to leave, and now he was behind her, putting his hand on her shoulder and turning her toward him in a familiar way, as if they had some kind of relationship deeper than just the professional. "Look, I know I handled it badly, but I didn't…" He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders in a way that was supposed to be disarming, that was supposed to make a woman want to forgive him, "I didn't know how to tell you."

"So you chose this way," she said flatly. "Because it's going so smoothly."

"God, look…" he rubbed his forehead in a nervous way, pinching it between his fingers, "you know how valuable you've been to me, to this whole campaign? Do you think I want to take risks with your life?"

She cocked that eyebrow again. "How else do I protect you? It's the job you paid me for."

"Maybe…maybe that's not the job I want you to do anymore. Maybe I want you to do something…more important." The way he was looking at her, in that awkward, pleading way that a man gets when he's making a declaration of feelings and doing it badly, and worse, embarrassing himself publicly – Guerrero was nearly gawking at the sheer audacity of it.

Anders didn't know her at all. Not one bit.

Realizing it, apparently, Elle's face gentled. She seemed to feel sorry for the guy, schmuck that he was making of himself, and gave him an appreciative smile – which Guerrero couldn't tell if she was faking. "Like I said before," she said, her voice soft, "these kind of conversations about my job responsibilities should be discussed privately."

Anders seemed hurt by these words. "Is that all I am?" he asked, his voice even lower, trying as hard as possible to only let her hear it. "Just a job?"

"Apparently, not anymore." And she finished her exit from the room.


	3. Listen to the tone

CHAPTER THREE: _But you listen to the tone and the violent rhythm_

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_Just because Guerrero knows everything there is to know about a job before taking it didn't mean he cares. _

_This particular schmuck's name is Justin Thorton, and he is just a typical drug lord in a typical situation of tension between him and his supplier. Guerrero was hired to hack his system and find information that could be used against him, but unfortunately Thorton has hired top-notch security. _

_The woman, still cool and beautiful despite their tussle, watches over Guerrero, bound shoulders to feet against a support post in the considerably large basement. Thorton addresses her as Lila. She listens, but does not talk in Guerrero's presence._

"_I want to make you an offer, Mr. Guerrero," Thorton says, and Guerrero can't help but notice that in spite of the drug lord's very generic situation, he does not come across as generic. He is cultured, educated, and much younger than Guerrero anticipated. He has a deep voice like a movie star, and the way he talks is very reasonable and logical. "You have a very serious reputation. Damaged, recently, I think, by parting ways with a former employer."_

"_I'm a freelancer in my heart," Guerrero says, sounding completely unworried by the fact that he can't move, not even his fingers. Apparently Thorton _is_ aware of Guerrero's reputation, and that is why he has not given him so much as an inch of room. Which is exactly what Guerrero would do in his place. _

"_I know who hired you and what they want," Thorton goes on, smiling politely and nodding at Guerrero's comment. Behind him, Guerrero hears the click of Lila's heels as she paces out of his view. "You can give it to them, collect your considerable fee – and then make one triple its size from me. Half in advance."_

"_For?" Guerrero says when Thorton's pause goes on too long._

"_Well, I should think it should be obvious. To double cross them. To lead us back to them so that I can eliminate this thorn in my paw. It's been troublesome for some time and I intend to eradicate it."_

_Guerrero considers this for a moment. When he is paid to do a job, he always comes through. Technically, he was paid for information, not to kill anyone. He knows that was coming, but it hadn't happened yet. So it wouldn't be a terrible violation of his code to accept this counteroffer. Still…_

"_How do you know you can trust me?" Guerrero asks. "I mean, who can trust someone willing to switch sides?"_

_Thorton chuckles. "I'd never make that mistake," he says, almost cheerfully. "Besides, that's what I have Lila for."_

_The pacing stops. "I'm sorry?" comes the cool, sweet voice._

"_Lila will assist you," Thorton says._

"_I work alone," Guerrero says._

"_Or we can just kill you now," Thorton suggests._

_Guerrero snorts. "You can try."_

"_Really?" Thorton frowns. "You'd let your stubbornness prevent you from a hefty payday? Times are tough in this economy. You don't know when your livelihood is going to feel the pinch. Besides, Lila," and here she comes into view, looking at her employer, her expression betraying no emotion, "is quite the companion. I believe you'll work well together."_

_Guerrero looks at Lila, and she looks back at him, and he can tell she's wearing blue contacts, and that her hair, while it fooled him before, is more than likely not her real hair color – not quite a natural shade of red. But she is still gorgeous, still tempting, and Guerrero can't really think of any good reason to say no, and while he is positive that Lila is being sent along to babysit him, to make sure he does what he's paid to do, he finds that he doesn't mind it as much as he normally would. _

_So he says yes. And they untie him._

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Elle slid the door shut behind her and approached the table where there was quite a nice layout of coffee and all manner of accoutrements. Styles of cream from every posh place in the city, plus non-dairy for those who were more health conscientious. At least five different kinds of sweetener, plus regular sugar. And a box of tea.

Her tea. She recognized the brand.

Damn Guerrero. Why in the hell did he have to be here, after all this time? She had done so well, for so long, and it was all getting fucked up.

Putting on the show was easy – hell, it was second nature – but now, away from them, her façade started to crack, and the emotions she buried were not so willing to stay quiet.

She grabbed a mug – delicate china, from its feel – and poured hot water into it. As she did so, she heard the door slide open again, and it didn't take eyes in the back of her head to know that it was Guerrero.

She'd known him too well to not recognize the feel of his gaze.

She did not turn around, but continued her litany. It occurred to her, then, that the tea was there _because_ of him, but this did not make her stop. She ripped open one of the small purple packets and dropped the bag into the hot water, and was pleased to find that there was a bottle of honey sitting beside the row of cream. She began to add it liberally, and stirred it with one of the small silver spoons.

Ilsa Pucci was loaded, after all. Even the small things were extravagant. She wondered how Guerrero was enjoying it – he had always had a strange taste for the finger things in life.

He sighed. Irritation that she was ignoring him. She allowed herself a satisfied smirk. Then she realized that there was no way he would cave that quickly, unless it was to serve a greater purpose. So she straightened her shoulders, and took a sip of her tea.

"How long are we going to avoid the elephant in the room?"

The direct approach. Yes, it was very Guerrero not to mess around. He hated games, he hated manipulation (at least when he wasn't doing it), he liked things to be very straight and simple and out in the open. Slowly, deliberately, she turned around, her porcelain mask back in place.

She didn't say anything to him, just looked at him. He was dressing better – black shirt, black leather vest, black suit coat over that, the sort of ensemble she would have made him wear rather than those tacky shirts that were too brightly printed. Still the glasses, though, and the length of his hair that gave him a refugee-from-the-sixties look. Thank God it wasn't a pony tail.

But those eyes – damn those eyes. They had always been his best feature, next to his muscles. They bored into her directly and did not flinch. He was not having this, not at all. They were going to have it out, she saw it in the set of his jaw, and bugger him if he thought she'd give him that satisfaction. This wasn't the old days anymore.

"Why, is he bothering you?" she replied.

He gave a snort. "More like…" and he trailed off, and the un-surety that followed was _not_ like him. "Suffocating," he finally finished.

She exhaled a short breath through her nostrils. She had spent years perfecting her expressions, making sure that nothing of hers, not even the slightest tick, ever gave anything away. She kept her face as blank as she could, letting not even the slight feeling of superiority she felt slip through. "If you have something to say, Gee, by all means, let it out."

He scowled at her. "Okay, dude, fine…you want me to go first? I'll go first. Where the hell did you disappear to?"

Now she did allow herself to raise her eyebrow, appearing innocent. "We agreed we were both free to come and go as we wanted. I figured your actions made it pretty clear that it was never more serious than that."

"You never gave me a chance to explain anything."

She sipped her tea again, feeling her stomach begin to bubble, wanting to push it down with casual gestures. She set the cup down on the saucer she had grabbed with it, holding it before her, pretending, in the back of her mind, that it was her shield, the only thing that stood between her and the chaos of emotion. It helped her focus. "Since when have you _ever _explained yourself?" she said, in a way that was too familiar, even for her own liking. "Whatever message you were trying to send, Gee, I got it, loud and clear."

"Oh, really? And what message was that?"

Her fingers tightened on the handle of the tea cup. She felt her face reflexively turning in toward a frown. "You killed my client," she said, her voice deadly cool.

"A client," he said, knowing that this conversation should have taken place five years ago, "that you yourself said you hated."

"Didn't matter," she replied, her voice a sheet of ice. "He was still the client."

Guerrero opened his mouth again. She fully expected, even anticipated, for him to tell her _why_ he had done it, what his reasons had been, in spite of the consequences for her. But if she had ever wanted to hear them, she could have easily done so five years ago. It just didn't matter. So she put up her hand and stopped him.

"Forget it," she said. "It doesn't matter. None of it does. It's no big deal –

(_liar, liar_)

" – and apparently we both have more important jobs to do." She started to turn away.

"Nuh – uh," Guerrero snapped. "Don't dismiss me. I'm not leaving until I've had my say."

She felt her whole frame tighten. This was always a problem between them. They were both stubborn. He was the first human being she'd ever met who she would have reluctantly admitted, under torture, was more stubborn than she herself.

"Then have your say," she said, back still to him, wishing like hell he'd leave her alone.

"Matheson was scum." He was talking loudly now, almost yelling. She felt a certain smug satisfaction that she'd pushed him to that point, and allowed the corners of her mouth to tip upward. But any second now, she knew he'd get sick of her back and yank her around to face him, and that just wouldn't do for either of them. She would not permit him to touch her.

So she turned back, expression bored, but attentive.

Then he didn't continue. She blinked, surprise catching her off guard. "That's it? Matheson was scum? So are most of the people we work for."

Guerrero shook his head. "Not this kind of scum."

She snorted, allowing herself a smirk as she folded her arms. "Well, paint my ass red and make me a stop sign, Gee has standards."

"Damn straight I do," he hissed. "There are some things too twisted even for me."

Her smirk gentled into a smile, even as she shook her head. "You know better than to get emotionally involved," she said reproachfully. "So, what, you were protecting me? You were being all noble? What did you think was going to happen, Gee, that I was going to run off with you on your white steed and thank you for making the world safe from one pathetic child pornographer?"

It was his turn to blink. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew," she returned quietly.

"And you still –"

"He was the _client_." She bit down on the last word, giving it punch. "Since when do we judge anybody?" Her eyes narrowed. "You're bullshitting me. You didn't kill Matheson because he was a child pornographer; that was just your excuse. Your justification for fucking me over. Why did you _really_ do it? Can you tell me that?"

He just stared at her, his face suddenly closing and becoming unreadable. This stand-off lasted almost a minute, before she finally said, dismissively, "I didn't think so." And she took her tea and walked past him, out of the room.

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Author's note: okay, before anybody gets upset, yes, my O.C. was protecting a child pornographer. I don't like it either, but I couldn't think of anything to more effectively get across my point. Yeah, he deserved to die, but that's not who Lila is. Or at least, who she was.


	4. Though the words sound steady

Okay, I've gotten some nice reviews, so I thought I'd update. Thanks, guys!

And to the other thirty-odd people who have visited my story and have not yet decided to leave a review – it's okay, although I hope you change your minds.

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CHAPTER FOUR: _Though the words sound steady, something empties within them_

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_Guerrero lay dying._

_He knows he is dying. He can feel a deep chill, even through the burning, blazing pain. The blood that seeps from him feels like it contains something vital to his existence – he has never considered the _soul_ before, but it's the closest word he can find - and it's draining away, leaving him so empty…_

_Consciousness flickers. He can't pass out – passing out is certain death, and he is not ready to give up. He can't give up. _

_But he can't fucking move, either. _

_The knife went in under his lower ribcage, not directly through but at that awful angle that was much quicker and direct to the heart. An expert has gotten him, and he feels a perverted kind of admiration. But something happened at the last moment and instead of just piercing through the arteries and into the heart itself, the knife went jagged, dragging down a line along his ribs, and this is worse, much worse, because it has hacked and gnawed through muscle and flesh and fat (what little there is) and left him feeling like his insides are gaping open to the world. Like he is falling inside out. _

_Someone is there. A hand is on his face, slapping his cheek, a bit hard. "Don't pass out, Guerrero!" snaps her voice, a voice he recognizes and even causes him to come back from the oblivion away from the pain that he so much wants to disappear into. The one he is in this mess with. The one who has just as much to lose as he does. The only one he can rely on at this moment to not let him die._

_He hates that voice, suddenly. He hates not knowing for sure whose hands his life has inadvertently been placed in. He hates her ambivalence and her cool head and that commanding tone she is using to keep him alive._

"_Come on, Gee!" The sudden use of a nickname, only using his first letter, startles him, and the annoyance is enough to get him to pry his eyes open. _

"_You don't have to yell," he grumbles._

"_Can you get up?" He looks around, but everything is blurry. Instead, it is his sense of smell that can pick up something behind the blood – cordite? He didn't have a gun; did someone fire a gun?_

_He gurgles his answer. Apparently it's just too much to expect of him to remain coherent and actually pay attention to the world around him at the same time. _

"_Fuck." Still so damn calm. He wants to yell at her, make her panic, but in place of the hate he feels a gratitude that he will never, not in a million years, bring himself to admit to aloud – whatever happens, she's not going to lose her head. Maybe he won't die. Maybe._

_There is an unexpected, harsh pop-bang sound that should be familiar to him, and he realizes, dully, that she is firing her gun, and the smell of cordite gets stronger in his nostrils. He hears her heels stomp away, and his body jerks as more shots fire, pure base instinct trying to make his body _get away_. _

_Then, abruptly, everything stops. For a moment Guerrero is sure he's passed out, or worse, his soul, spirit, whatever life force that powers him is leaving his body for a quieter place, but that's not going to last, something worse waits for him._

_And then the pain is back, in bright colors and shapes and patterns, and he chokes out a scream – although it doesn't sound like a scream, not to his own muddled ears. _

_She has wrapped a tourniquet around his chest, and found something to cover the wound and hold his insides in. It's his own belt that she ties, tighter than he knew it could ever go, and its going to strangle him even as its meant to keep him alive. _

_Then, her arms are under his shoulders, and she is dragging him backwards, and it's all he can take, his brain can't process anything else, and the shock puts him out._

_The world comes back to him slowly, and he's not aware that any time has passed. For all he knows he's still being dragged, but he feels still, and quiet – thank God for the quiet – and gradually his memory catches up through the layers of shock to remind him what has happened._

_It's a double-cross. That's the only explanation. He remembers thinking it right before that knife went into his side. Somebody set them up, both him and his "partner," that red-head named Lila. Why and how are incidental for the moment – whoever planned it was smart._

_Doesn't matter, though. If Guerrero lives through this, he's going to kill them. His mind is already flipping through ways to do it, coming up with his typical A-B-C list of alternatives._

_He realizes that he's not alone. A woman, youngish, with straight brown hair and almond-shaped eyes comes into the room and stands over him. She checks the monitors that he realizes he is hooked up to, and he can see from her white coat that she is a doctor. _

_Is he in a hospital? The grey walls and the dim light do not say "hospital." He is more than likely in some alley doc's back shack, having been patched together by the skin of his teeth._

_But he feels pretty good, for that to be true. Better than he expected to feel._

_She looks at him, and realizes he is looking back. She turns her head away and calls, "Elle! He's awake!"_

_Soft footsteps enter the room and someone is standing over him, someone he recognizes, but doesn't. "Elle," whoever she is, looks familiar, but her hair is too short and too dark, and her expression much too open to be his "partner."_

_But it _is_ her. Elle – aka, Lila, stands over him, and she actually looks relieved._

"_His vitals are strong," the doctor says. "Not bad work, if I do say so."_

"_Yes, Victoria," Elle replies, her tone dry. "You're an artist. And I guess this makes us even."_

_Victoria flashes Elle a smile. "Yeah, right," she says. "Like I'd let one of my best clients off the hook like that." Victoria sighs. "Well, you ready to move him?"_

"_Move him?" Elle sounds shocked. This is the most emotion he's heard from the woman in three days. If he'd known that almost dying would bring out the fire in her, he would have done it sooner. "He's—"_

"_Out of danger," Victoria cuts him off. "And I can't let you guys stay here. You've been here three days, and that's three days too long. I'm not running a hospital, just a patch-up ward."_

"_So what, I'm stuck babysitting him?" Well _excuse_-fucking-_me_, Guerrero thinks, but can't find his voice yet. "What the hell am I supposed to do with him?"_

"_Change his bandages, and don't let him resume normal activity for at least two weeks," Victoria says, handing Elle a bottle of something which Guerrero hopes is morphine. "Come on, I know you've got a safe-house somewhere you can stash him. Hire a nurse if you don't wanna deal with it yourself, I can give you a few numbers."_

_Elle grumbles something about "dirty hoes," and looks down at Guerrero. She waves a hand in front of his face, and Guerrero scowls. "You with us yet, Gee? We have to take a road trip."_

_He wants to tell her to stop calling him that. He manages some kind of grunt._

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Guerrero moved to the kitchen, where it was quieter and certainly emptier. He opened the fridge to steal Winston's lunch, but even as he picked up the container and surveyed the chicken within he realized he wasn't hungry.

_Damn that woman._ He tossed the container back down and slammed the door shut. _Damn her to hell._

Why was he so pissed off? She had always been that way, from minute one. And he'd known better, he had _always_ known better, that Elle was whoever she needed to be at that moment, and once the moment was past, she was someone different.

Maybe…maybe he was pissed at himself. For having this reaction to her, after all this time. It had been his fault, after all, that she'd left. He had known, the second he had pulled that trigger and taken Matheson's life, that he had taken a turn he could never take back.

Before, he had never cared. But before, he had never had anything to lose.

He was pacing the kitchen, and was startled when Chance was suddenly there. He didn't let it on, just gave him a "not now" look and turned away to the sink, turning on the water and pretending to do…something.

Chance started, "Look, you know I don't like to pry—"

"And yet, you're doing it anyway," Guerrero muttered.

"Listen, man, if there's going to be a problem, I have to know. I mean, it's my job. You were the one who always told me that when personal feelings get involved the work goes bad. You want to sit this one out?"

He was half-tempted to say yes. No, more than half-tempted. He could do the same fucking thing she did to him five years ago. He could just turn on his heel and walk out, without even telling her that he was going.

Not that she'd give a shit.

At Guerrero's prolonged silence, Chance went on. "I mean, it's not like we don't need you – we do. This political bullshit is messy and you're the only one I think can navigate it with a clear head."

"I don't care. Either way," Guerrero said.

"But apparently, you do care." Chance didn't continue the line of thought – he didn't need to.

Guerrero sighed. He could count the people he trusted on one hand – and the index finger would always be for Chance.

"That's Elle," he said, his voice low.

It took a moment for it to sink in. "Elle?" Chance breathed, almost glancing over his shoulder, as if the woman were standing right there for a closer look. "Really? That's her?"

"Yeah."

Chance blinked, looking a bit stunned. "Wow…she's not what I pictured."

"She's not what anybody pictures," Guerrero drawled.

It might have been his imagination, but he thought Chance was looking at him with new respect. "She's…svelte."

"She's a fucking razor blade," the other said.

"Did she always-?"

"Hell no. Her bra's padded, that's a wig, those are contacts, and she's got to have put an extra two inches in her heels. Take all that stuff off and…she's still drop dead gorgeous."

"Yeah, but that's not what it was all about," Chance said knowingly.

"At first it was," Guerrero countered. "And then personal feelings got involved, and—"

"The work went bad," Chance finished for him. "Yeah, yeah, I know." He was familiar, in bits and pieces, of Guerrero and Elle's tenuous "relationship." And calling it a relationship, even in quotes, was still being generous.

After a thoughtful pause, Chance said, "Have you ever…considered…telling her that…you're…sorry?"

If Guerrero could have shot fire from his eyes, he would have incinerated Chance on the spot. The other man raised his hands defensively.

"Okay, bad idea. But not really, you know." He turned his back on the continued burning look Guerrero was giving him. "You'd be amazed what it can do for you."

"Dude," Guerrero said, and there was a threat in his tone.

"Fine," Chance relented. "But if this is going to be an issue, I have to plan for it. Which means I'm going to have to keep the two of your apart, which is against my better judgment."

"Not every old flame is Katherine Walters," Guerrero said.

Chance stiffened. "Fair point," he agreed. "So you're going to stay here and do that magic hacker thing you do and find every single direction these guys could be coming at Anders from. I need to know why they want him dead."

"Sure, easy as finding a needle in a haystack." But it would keep him busy, Guerrero knew, and he did want to be kept busy. If he was kept busy long enough, maybe he would suddenly look up, and she'd be gone.

Good fucking riddance.


	5. With fists flying up in the air

Long chapter today. I let the chips fall where they may.

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CHAPTER FIVE: _With fists flying up in the air; like we're holding onto something that's invisible there_

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_Guerrero is stunned to see who she really is. And he did not miss the doctor calling her by a different name than Lila._

_L. Or was it Elle? He likes the second one better, it sounds more like a name._

_Dressed in an ordinary-looking and yet still sophisticated silken shirt and a black skirt that still manages to show off her shapely legs,, with her dark brown hair with its plum highlights cut short so that it curls a little around her ears, she sits in a chair with a laptop on her lap and only occasionally looks up to see if Guerrero is awake. _

_He's been going in and out for some time now, and his internal clock is all fucked up. Something tells him it's been a few days, especially the sharp hunger pains in his stomach. Worse, he's aware that he's been thirsty, and someone has been holding a cup to his lips for him to drink, as well as holding something else up to his penis so he can piss. But now, the word beings to clear and he starts to get a beat on his surroundings._

"_How do you feel?" she asked, and her voice is still sweet and cool, but tired. There are black smudges under her eyes which he realizes are from sleep deprivation. Has she been watching over him this whole while, at the detriment of her own comfort? The thought is oddly touching._

"_Like I've been stabbed," he manages through his dry throat. She takes the cup with the straw in it and holds it up to his lips._

"_You were," she sighs. "You're a lucky bastard, though. Got a good amount of flesh but nothing vital. Missed your major arteries by millimeters."_

"_Then what's the big fucking deal?" Guerrero asks._

"_You lost a ton of blood," she replies evenly. "And tore up muscle and sinew that make it possible for you to breathe."_

_It isn't the first time. He's been shivved, strangled, shot, and stabbed a few more times for good measure. Sometimes there have been various combinations. But he's never been laid up quite like this, and he doesn't like it. _

"_The scar is going to be incredible," she says, almost in admiration. "I mean, Christ-like. You know, when they stabbed him through the heart? That's what the guy was going for, anyway."_

"_So what happened?" he asks, getting his bearings a bit more._

_She smirks. "I shot them. It was a real fuckarow," she adds with a chuckle. "Too bad you missed it."_

_She turns away, checks on something on the laptop, and Guerrero manages to pull himself up a little more. He can see she's been downloading something. Then he says, just to get it out of the way, "I guess I owe you one, then."_

_She freezes, and then turns her head, even as she's bent over the laptop, and her eyes – which he sees are a normal shade of blue – are a bit incredulous. "You serious?" she says. _

_He frowns at her, not following._

_She straightens, and her pause can only mean great reluctance. "You don't remember what happened?" she ventures._

_He searches memories. The pain of that knife going under his ribs is a memory like a blazing burn, and he can't discern anything around it, certainly less before than after. But he gets the feeling that there's something there he should know._

_For a moment, it seems she's not going to tell him. She's going to continue to let him think that she not just saved his ass but has been his own personal nursemaid at great personal cost to herself, and he will pay her back, if it takes the rest of his career. Or life, whichever comes first. Then, she sighs. _

"_You're going to remember for yourself eventually, and then you'll be pissed at me for letting you think I saved you. The truth, Guerrero, is that _you_ saved _me_."_

_It doesn't fit. But he doesn't give away his confusion._

_She goes on anyway. "You don't remember why they got you from behind? You were coming to my rescue and you got in the way. That knife was meant for me. I'm not stupid enough to think you mean to sacrifice yourself like that, but we were both kind of thrown off by finding out that both my boss and your boss wanted us both dead."_

"_Huh." Somehow, _that_ fits. He's impressed that she told him. _

"_So it's actually me who owes you," she sighs again. "So that's why…the nice digs. The bedside manner."_

"_Oh." Well, this is much nicer. The thought that _she_ owes _him_ is…appealing. "In that case, when I'm feeling better," he says, suddenly exhausted again, "we'll have to find a way to make us even. I can already think of a few ways."_

_She gives him a raised eyebrow that he knows from countless other women – the "are you kidding?" eyebrow. Before they find out, anyway. But he knows he sees a glint of something there. The same something he felt when he first laid eyes on her. _

"_Here," he says, extending his hand. "Give me that laptop."_

"_You're still groggy," she says, dismissive. _

"_No, I'm -" and he yawns. Bad timing. "All right, I'll sleep, but when I wake up again I want to stay awake. I want to know what's really going on here. And who we have to kill."_

_She smirks. "Right with you, Gee."_

_That nickname again. But he doesn't have the energy to tell her to stop. _

_Before he lets himself doze off, though, he says, "So, what happened to your hair?"_

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The first attack came quickly.

Anders' campaign office was a very nice rented set of rooms just outside of downtown, and it was filled to the bursting with volunteers and workers alike. It was a very typical setting, and the sheer amount of people would have intimidated other security agencies.

Elle, known only to Anders as Lisa, had it all under control. Her own people had already infiltrated the workers and the situation was being monitored.

The first thing Guerrero did – which he was sure that Elle had already done, employing someone much like him to do it – was run background checks on everyone. Red flags were pulled up and investigated, and more often than not Guerrero wound up checking into the people who came up with nothing, looking for someone who was using an alias.

Major red flag.

On the floor above the main offices, Anders had his own personal office and working suite. It was nicely but modestly furnished, and Anders kept his desk in the main room so that he was right in the middle with his closest aides.

Elle stayed close by, ear bud in and phone close by. Because of the frequency, she and her security staff could easily pick up whatever conversation Chance had with Winston. This prevented any loss of face in having to switch from their current system to the one Ilsa used.

In Chance's opinion, if Elle was annoyed by the situation, she should win an academy award for acting. She was cool, unflappable, and perfectly cooperative. But he knew, perfectly well, that she was watching them all very closely.

Anders was going through papers on his desk, and kept shooting glances at his head of security. Elle did not look back. She sipped her tea – Chance noticed that the same brand she drank was the kind they had in the office, and wondered if the reason Guerrero drank it was because of his history with Elle, but then dismissed it because it was too sentimental, especially for Guerrero – and read the newspaper.

"You mentioned something about snipers," Chance asked Anders, partly because he wanted to know and partly he was getting tired of watching the man trying vainly to get Elle's eye.

"Uh, yeah," Anders replied. "We have security now at all possible sniper points. It's costing more but Lisa insisted."

Chance opened his mouth to ask for a possible layout but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ilsa enter the room.

"How does it go?" she asked him in her cool, professional tones.

"Well, it's only been a few hours," Chance quipped. "Ilsa, you shouldn't be here."

"Nonsense. Mr. Anders' security is of great personal interest to me –"

"He's right, Mrs. Pucci," Anders said, standing up. "I would never forgive myself if you were put at risk—"

Ilsa opened her mouth to counter this, but there was a popping sound and suddenly plaster came down from the ceiling right onto the chair Anders had just vacated. The politician looked up, but was promptly knocked down by Elle shoving him viciously out of the way.

Chance looked around. It hadn't come from the window – the pane of glass was intact.

"Downstairs!" Elle said, still shoving Anders until he was shoved up on a nearby couch. "Get on that end-table," she ordered him, pointing to a heavy piece of oak furniture. "It's coming from below!"

Chance was already out the door. But when he entered the main pen all he could see was a sea of busy faces.

He knew how the gunman had done it. It would be easy to pretend to drop something under the desk, then possibly position him (or her) self on the floor and aim at the ceiling, and pull the desk chair close to shield what was going on from outside eyes.

So that left the obvious. Whose desk was underneath Anders' office?

Elle went past him. She was talking into her ear bud and he could only catch snatches of it because his frequency was switched to a different channel. Her tone was low and collected, as if nothing had happened. But whoever had fired those shots knew from the second he saw Chance and Elle appear that his cover was blown.

Chance's eyes went to the door. Two people were heading out the door, and going in two different directions.

"You get right, I get left," Elle murmured to him discreetly. She headed for the door and Chance followed.

The second he stepped outside, something stopped him. It was a bad idea to go chasing after this guy – and it had been guys going in both directions – and leaving the offices vulnerable. The smartest thing the assassin could have done was let someone else walk out and count on the distraction of an innocent person getting chased down to make his exit.

Elle was already disappearing into the crowd. Chance turned back and went inside, scanning the people. Something would tip him off. Something would trigger his attention. It was a knack he had, the reason why this profession fit him so well – this one and the role of assassin before it.

He caught someone giving him a glance that was a touch too long. Then the person hurried off to get coffee.

It was a woman.

Chance meandered his way to the cluster of desks under where the ceiling plaster looked chipped. One of them was obviously a woman's desk – it had the fluttery things that women would have, like flowery stationary, pink pens, and just for good measure, a frame with a man and boy in it, molded with glittering red hearts.

Too obvious. Chance continued his pursuit toward the coffee, where the woman had stopped and was fixing herself a cup.

A smart assassin would not have kept the gun. She would have tossed it the second the job was done. But maybe paranoia, which did plague many in their line of work, would have made her keep it. Which meant a possible risk to innocent bystanders.

"Guerrero," Chance said, "you getting anything on security?"

"Ran a few faces through the database," came the reply. Chance knew that Guerrero had long since hacked into the security cameras, and had been running faces through databases that Ilsa didn't know (and better that she didn't) they had illegal access to.

"I take it if you had seen who did it you would have spoken up," Chance murmured.

Guerrero's reply was a snort. Again, too obvious. "I did get the guys who were heading out the door, though. One of them is clean but the other has a record."

"Of what?"

"Barry White's greatest hits. What do you think, dude?"

"Well, E…uh, Lisa went after one of them."

"Hope it was the right one or else she's gonna be pissed."

"Ooh, looking forward to that."

"Me too." A pause. "There's a chick with a record, too. Mostly prostitution but she did a dime for shooting a security guard during an armed robbery."

"I got a girl in my sights," Chance said. "Doesn't have that ex-felon look."

"By the coffee maker?" Guerrero paused. "Yeah, that's her, bro."

"Two on the same job?" Chance mused. "That sounds a bit sloppy."

"Which means it ain't either one of them. My money says they're a distraction."

Quite suddenly, Elle came rushing through the door. Her face was collected but her hair was mussed and there was a thick, bloody run through her stocking that started at her knee. She ran right up to the fire alarm and pulled the lever down, setting off a horrid, screeching bell that would drive everyone out. Then she took off at a dead run for the stairs.

Chance said nothing. He followed.

Upstairs, it was nearly chaos. The remaining security guards had clustered around Anders, and by extension, Ilsa, and were trying to get them out, and when Elle appeared she snapped a few orders and the men seemed to suddenly fall in line. They hurried Anders toward the door that Elle had just vacated.

Chance was torn. He never was supposed to leave the target. No matter what, that was his rule.

But he had to know. "Winston!" he called.

"I got it!" came the voice of the former cop. Winston had been in the surveillance van, but at the rush of danger he'd come running.

"Did you see what happened?" Chance asked.

"I saw you come out, and go back in," Winston said. "I saw her – " he thumbed in the direction of Elle, whom he only knew as Lisa, "—run down a guy who left the office and they disappeared into an alley. Next thing I know she's running back."

"You call the cops?"

Winston gave him a withering look before disappearing out the door with Anders to get the man to the safety of the bulletproof surveillance van.

Chance followed Elle into the main room. She had started tossing the place, every single thing that wasn't bolted down (and even a few things that might have been) as if she were frantically searching for something.

"What happened?"

"Bomb," she snapped, as if he were interrupting.

"How do you know?"

She gave him much the same look Guerrero would give him when he would ask that question. He suddenly believed that she and Guerrero had spent some serious time together.

"Caught up with that stupid punk," she said, still searching, her hands scrambling around air ducts and heating vents and trying to shake the ventilation screens loose. She reached into a pocket and produced a small screwdriver and began to pry and remove screws. "Beat it out of him. You'd be surprised how persuasive putting a knife to a man's junk is –" and then she stopped, glanced at him, and added, "but probably not, since you employ Guerrero."

Guerrero... Chance pressed his hand to his ear bud. "Guerrero, you have –"

"On my way down, dude," and Chance could tell by the slightly out of breath sound of his voice that Guerrero had been running. "Got Ames. Think the bomb is in an old safe that was part of the former layout of the building. Picked up some kind of transmission signal coming from a floor above you. Don't know how much time is on the timer, though – maybe fifteen minutes. You guys gotta get out of there."

Good advice. Chance ventured to snake his muscular fingers around Elle's forearm and was viciously shaken off. Unphazed, he said, "Do you know where there's an old safe on the premises? Something plastered over from the previous owners?"

Elle's angry scowl was frozen into a dawning realization. "One floor up," she said.

They both took off running.

Upstairs, it was dank, cold and unused. Only one room was in decent shape, with plain white walls and old furniture scattered in what might have been an actual arrangement for comfort before it was piled on with the refuse from the bottom two floors. A few minutes of scrambling turned up a wall safe with a heavy dial on the front.

"You a thief as well as a former assassin?" Elle asked him.

Chance shook his head. "You?"

"I know how to crack safes," she sighed, "but it's been a while and we don't have any way of knowing if the door is wired to the explosive."

Chance thought for a moment. Then he realized that Guerrero had said there was a signal coming from this location, his only clue that the bomb was here. He said as much out loud.

"Why would a bomb transmit a signal?" Elle wondered. "Unless it was on a remote trigger, or –"

"Or it was remote triggering something else," Chance finished. "And it doesn't make sense, putting the bomb up here. You'd want to get to the foundations. Bring the building down on our heads."

"Maybe it is," Elle said. "The trigger is up here, and when it goes off it will trigger whatever is attached to the main support beams."

"And the smartest place to target them is in the—"

"Basement," they said together.

"I'm going to try and crack this old safe," Elle said calmly.

"I'm going to see if I can disconnect whatever is in the basement from the main bomb," Chance said, and took off.


	6. We're living at the mercy of the pain

CHAPTER SIX: _We're living at the mercy of the pain and the fear_

_Elle's previous impression of Guerrero is now being replaced by a new one._

_Her first impression was that he was a sneaky little man with a nasty bite. She sees now that this is true, but this is not all. What possessed him to put himself in harm's way for her, she will never know, but right now it has bound the two of them together and they must remain so until this situation is resolved._

_When she saw that knife go into Guerrero's side, she felt a strange sensation of… responsibility. Had her guard been down? Was she too comfortable? It was the only way she could excuse her not seeing the double-double cross coming._

_A double cross both ways. Her client, Guerrero's client. It is connected somehow but she does not know how, and while she is a supreme actress, an expert in hand to hand combat, highly knowledgeable of guns and their uses, and even an above average singer, she is not a hacker. Information is fed to her; she does not dig it up herself._

_But Anna is unhappy with her. During those three days Guerrero drifted back and forth over the line between almost dead and almost alive, she went to see her boss, and Anna was furious. First with the client, and then with Elle herself._

"_You didn't see this coming?" Anna asked her. "Why not?"_

_Elle could not, still cannot, answer. She was well aware of Thorton's reputation, as she is aware of the reputations of all the men she encounters in her business, and why she would not have been looking over her shoulder for him to shove a knife into her back, she cannot explain. Maybe she had been cocky. It was not unthinkable. She is so used to winding men around her finger that sometimes she forgets that some men are too smart for that. _

_This situation is a strike against her. She had a completely clean record so far, and this strike bothers her. Enormously._

_But Guerrero, despite her earlier misgivings, is turning out to be a reliable partner. While she knew, perfectly well, that initially he wasn't any happier with the situation than she was, this new development changes things. Now, they are on the same side, working for the same objective, with the same desire for revenge. It is refreshing, to be doing a job for her own personal satisfaction. And it is more refreshing to work with someone that she does not have to manage, coerce and manipulate._

_At least, not any more than any woman manipulates a man._

_That Guerrero is attracted to her, she pays no attention to. All men are attracted to her, it is a fact of life she has learned to ignore. It doesn't mean anything, not to her, and not to him, either. She is a passing figure, a blip on his radar, much the same as he is to her. He will leer at her, and she will make the occasional flirtatious remark just to maintain that edge of anxiety, keep him wondering, but she does not anticipate anything happening. Nothing serious, anyway. Business as usual. Of course, there is the question of her "owing" him, but she does not anticipate payback being a major problem. _

_This situation, though, is new to her, and she is unsure exactly how to proceed. Guerrero, however, seems to know exactly what to do. Even from his sickbed, he taps away on that computer and relentlessly follows trail after trail of data, no matter how obscure or seemingly unconnected. He makes calls from a burner phone that he instructs her to get for him, and after a few days, he has an idea of what has happened._

_Elle, for her part, returns to the scene of the crime, but not so that anyone would notice. Normally, she would disguise herself and infiltrate, but the situation makes her too nervous to trust herself to do that, so she sticks to distance surveillance, monitoring Thorton's house, his "workplace," and waiting for something to tip her off as she waits for Guerrero to recover. All she sees is that it looks like Thorton is beefing up his security and turning his home into a fortress, as if the attack on her were not planned by him, but an act of war from an outside source. This makes her curious, and begin to suspect the real plan. But Guerrero does not say anything about what he finds, telling her he will discuss it when he has the whole picture._

_She does not like having to wait on anybody, but she makes an exception because she still feels that nagging, awful…responsibility._

_After a week – which she cannot believe, even though the calendar clearly shows her – Guerrero is getting himself dressed and is sitting on the chair or the couch. He already gets out of bed to use the bathroom, but he needs help when it comes to bathing and keeping his wound clean, and Elle plays nursemaid. He doesn't like the situation any more than she does, but he certainly seems to be enjoying it to a certain extent. She has come to realize that these things – liking and enjoying - can be mutually exclusive._

_Elle does not miss that underneath Guerrero's clothes, his body is a tightly woven mass of muscle and sinew. His arms, chest, abdomen are roughly carved but strong and solid. This is no weak, wimpy individual who has turned to hacking computers because he couldn't compete in the physical world. While he is pale and freckly, and his hair has more than its share of red highlights, and his face is gaunter and more ragged than she normally finds attractive, she can see how, in the right light, he would be striking. Maybe not "handsome," maybe not "good looking," but striking, definitely, is an appropriate word._

"_So here's what I have," Guerrero says from where he reclines on the couch, feet propped up on the only footrest in the room. She sits in her own overstuffed chair, heels off and ankles crossed, still in her skirt and button-down shirt, the clothes she reverts to when she is not playing a "part." "Your guy, Thorton, and my guy, whose name is Horace, by the way, were in business together as supply and demand for a long time. But both of them have to report to a bigger guy, a well known bastard by the name of Morez."_

_She arches an eyebrow. She has heard of Morez, but only the way one hears of the boogey man. "Drug lords upon drug lords," she says aloud._

"_Yeah, the bigger fish eat the smaller fish," Guerrero says with a touch of boredom. "Thing is, Thorton and Horace were wanting out, so they hatched a stupid plan to look like they'd killed each other. Then they take their stacks of cash and escape to some obscure island. From what I understand, together." He also arches an eyebrow, this one suggestively._

"_Oh," she says, surprised. The fact that Thorton is a homosexual surprises her, but does not shock her. After all, he did not proposition her once. And it would explain why she failed to read him correctly. "So you're saying it's an ill-conceived lovers plot to disappear. Where do we come in?"_

"_Our reputations," Guerrero explains. "If Thorton sent you after Horace, and Horace sent me after Thorton, and the paths crossed, it would be made to look like we'd killed each other. A step in the escalation factor, if two people of reliable reputation were taken out in the middle of this clash they're having. It makes both Thorton and Horace look as if they were taking serious action against the other, but of course neither one wants the other to succeed, so that's why they had to be sure to kill us."_

"_Thorton looks like he's expecting to be attacked," Elle says._

"_He probably is," Guerrero agrees. "Act three of this little drama will probably result in some kind of confrontation, probably at Thorton's if he looks like he's expecting it."_

"_Then they'll fake their deaths in the chaos and Morez will be none the wiser."_

_Guerrero flattens his lips in a parody of a smile, what she has come to recognize as his, "you got it," look. It is not an encouraging look, but is intended to make the viewer feel mildly stupid. She is unaffected by it, but it makes her curious to know what he would look like if he actually _did_ smile._

_The idea is almost frightening._

"_Maybe," she muses aloud, "I should make a personal appearance at this upcoming party. Make sure that instead of an act, it turns out to be the real deal."_

"_Not a bad plan, but needs a bit of work," Guerrero says. "First of all, we both go. And second, they may be expecting us, because they know we're not dead."_

"_So how do we fix that?"_

"_We don't wait for their party. We make our own. Catch them off guard."  
><em>

"_I take it you have an idea?"_

_This time, Guerrero smirks. It's almost an improvement._

_88888888888_

When the bomb goes off, it takes a chunk out of the third floor.

Guerrero and Ames arrived within ten minutes, after Chance had found the blocks of C-4 connected to barrels of some kind of flammable liquid. They were hooked up to cellular phones, which would get the signal from the main explosive and be triggered. Chance had disconnected the phone from the first one and was removing the second when Guerrero came pounding down the stairs.

Chance stopped what he was doing and glanced over his shoulder. Guerrero looked… flustered. Quite frankly, he had looked flustered since this case started, but it had definitely escalated. "Dude," Guerrero said when he was sure Chance knew he was there – certainly you don't want to surprise a man who's trying to diffuse a bomb – "what are you doing? Shouldn't we all be three city blocks clear of this mess?"

"Where's Ames?"

"Took off upstairs," came the reply. "Had some stupid idea about being able to crack the safe."

"If it's all so stupid, why did you come down here?" Chance turned back to what he was doing, and within thirty seconds had slipped the second phone from its place, severing the connection.

"To stop you from doing something stupid. Like this," Guerrero remarked. "Is that all?"

"No, there's gotta be two more. Help me find them."

They searched. It took a full minute to locate the other two, way in the back of the basement, almost hidden behind an old storage locker. Chance wasted no time disconnecting them, and had just gotten the last phone in his hand when the world above him started to rock.

Both he and Guerrero were flung to the ground as the ceiling shook and all manner of dust and debris rained down on them. It didn't last long – not in the big scheme of things – but it felt like ten minutes before they were able to get on their feet, although it had been less than a minute.

"Tell me that was an earthquake," Chance said.

"No such luck, bro," Guerrero said as he took Chance's hand and hauled him up. They took off up the stairs.

The main floor wasn't as badly torn up as they were afraid it was, but on the second floor there was a deep gash through the ceiling that clearly exposed the site of the explosion – the old office. The stairs, however, were pretty much intact and they were able to get up them without fear of them collapsing.

Ground zero, however, was another matter.

It was not recognizable. The safe was a giant black smear against what was left of the white wall. Everything in the room had been pushed against the far wall, so the door, if it hadn't already been blown off its hinges, would have been unopen-able. But as it was, it hung open like a tooth gap, showing shattered furniture and other bits and pieces blown into haphazard piles.

"Shit," Guerrero said.

"Ames!" Chance called. Then, "Elle!"

"Dude!" Guerrero hissed.

"No time for secrets, bro," Chance said, and began digging.

"Stupid!" Guerrero snapped. "What if that brings it all down? You saw that gape in the floor –look!"

Chance looked up, over the debris piled in his view, and saw that it had all started to slide down toward the middle of the room, where the gape was now visible from up top. Shifting the crap around would only make it slide farther down into the opening, like water going down a drain.

Then, a rustle.

A groan.

"Fuck!" came Ames' voice.

"Told you," came a quieter voice.

"Gently, now," Guerrero said, and began lifting broken boards and thick wads of stuffing from the top of the pile, clearing their view into the room. Chance followed this lead, and saw what had happened to Ames and Elle.

The couch was barely discernable – only because the four pegs of its feet stuck up out of the wreckage – and it started to move. It was against the far wall, by the windows – it had been blown sideways, apparently, far into the corner but not far enough from that divide in the floor. It started to slide toward it even as it started to turn over.

And underneath were Ames and Elle.

Elle got up first, covered with a heavy coating of power. Chance observed that if Guerrero was right and she was wearing a wig, it was of excellent quality, because it hadn't moved. She had a scratch along her cheek and the left sleeve of her jacket was shredded up to the elbow, but other than that, she didn't seem to have any major injuries.

Ames, however, was still on the ground, and all Chance could see of her was a tuft of her long brown hair.

"We're going to need a stretcher," Elle said calmly. "I think she's hurt."

Chance looked around for a way to climb over to them without disrupting anything too much and making the potential cave-in worse, but didn't see a way. Guerrero was already gone behind him. He could hear the sirens – and considering how Guerrero felt about cops, it didn't surprise him that the man would want to disappear, but it didn't quite make sense, since he had gone through the effort to even _get_ here.

Elle bent down, and her hands seemed to be working at something – probably checking Ames for the extent of her injuries. "Ow!" came Ames' voice.

"Then quit moving!" Elle said with a bit of an edge.

"Ames, can you stand?" Chance called.

A rustle of movement, then, "Uh…no."

"Leg injury," Elle told him, then turned back. "Ames, don't—"

And then Ames screamed.

"—look at it," Elle finished. She removed her jacket and bent down, presumably to cover whatever was upsetting Ames.

"Is that my fucking bone?" Ames shrieked.

Compound fracture, Chance guessed. He had to get to them—

And then the whole room shifted. Down into that crack.

Suddenly, Guerrero's voice came behind him. "Is there something we can hook a line to?" he called.

Chance turned around and saw, inexplicably, that Guerrero had somehow gotten a hold of some long cord – it looked almost like bungee rope. It made sense – Guerrero probably kept all kinds of interesting things in the trunk of the Eldo.

Chance took it from him. "Let me," he said. "You make yourself scarce from the cops."

"Dude, where am I gonna go?" Guerrero said.

Ignoring the question, Chance looked around the room behind him for a place to secure the rope and found one of the exposed ceiling beams to be just what he wanted. It was still very solid, lined with steel, and he tied off the bungee cord and brought the rest back toward the room, where Guerrero was now in the way.

"What did you do something stupid like that for?" Guerrero snarked, glaring at Elle.

"It wasn't me," Elle replied, and while she tried to play it cool, Chance could hear the irritation seeded through her voice. "Your girl Ames here wouldn't leave until she'd cracked the safe. When it opened, we barely had fifteen seconds before it detonated."

"You should have dragged her out," Guerrero declared. "And she's not my girl."

Chance shoved Guerrero out of the way. "Not the time, man," he said in a low voice.

Guerrero was not to be dissuaded, however. "You're lucky you had time to get to the couch!"

Elle rolled her eyes, and then extended her hand for Chance's rope. "The window supports are strong enough," she said. Chance tossed, and she caught, and then tied an equally secure knot high up on the iron bars.

Bungee rope was flexible, but they had tied it off tight enough to keep the bend from being too sharp, and Chance was able to get his hands and ankles around it without it dipping too close to the floor. He slid his way down until he was almost there, and heard Elle say, "Stand on the sill. It's safer."

Chance lowered one foot into the window sill and then the other. When he turned, he saw what had happened to Ames.

A bone from her lower leg jutted out the curve of her calf, not much but enough to freak the young thief out. Elle had already tied a tourniquet with her jacket, but now it was a matter of getting Ames out of here without the whole thing falling down around them.

"She can't get up," Elle said. "She'll pass out."

"Then maybe that's better," Chance said. "Won't have to listen to her squawk."

"Hey," Ames said, her voice weakening, "you have to look at one of your bones stickin' out where it shouldn't be an' see how much you complain!"

Chance swore he saw Elle give a little grin.

The floor shifted again. It was a heavy, angry creaking sound, and the couch slid a bit further away from them, toward the middle of the room.

"Should we just risk it?" Elle asked.

"I got an idea," Chance said. He reached out with a foot and gave the couch a heavy shove. It went even farther, this time nearly lodging itself right into the hole.

Elle was a quick learner. "You realize that's kind of suicidal," she said, conversationally.

"Well, I figure," Chance explained, "that if the floor just goes, once and for all, we know what room we have left. It's waiting for the thing to drop that's slowing us down, and I don't want Ames to go into shock."

Elle sighed. "Fine." She reached out and shoved a nearby chair toward the gap. The creaking got louder until it became snapping, as the weight make the hole widen.

"Guerrero," Chance called.

Guerrero did not reply, but instead shoved on the debris at the door, pushing it into the room. It seemed, for a moment, like it was going to be the final straw, but the remains of the floorboards still held.

Barely.

Chance reached over for the nearby desk and gave it a mighty heave. All at once everything in the middle was sucked down, and Chance and Elle ducked down toward the floor near the wall, pulling Ames with them, even though she was pretty tightly packed in as it was.

Once the hole cleared, everything else seems to follow. For a few shaky moments, there was just the crashing and banging and trembling of everything caving in on the floor below, and then finally it stopped, leaving a good three feet of room for them to scoot along the wall toward the door.

Guerrero stepped into the room – as much as there was to step into. "Come on, dudes," he said. "Let's go."


End file.
